Scarlet
by gingercumberbabies
Summary: Dr. Jonathan Watson finds himself in a small town in Massachusetts, he quickly becomes a part of the lives of Reverend Sherlock Holmes and Miss Molly Hooper, a shamed woman labeled as an adulteress. Their lives quickly become twisted and complicated in their search for forgiveness, freedom, and true love. Unfortunately, some one cuts in. (T for now, Scarlet Letter twist, period)
1. Chapter 1

Jonathan Watson had always had an adequately keen eye, especially for the human nature. He may not have been what one would call adept at observation, but being a physician did call for some skill at diagnosis.

When Dr. Watson strolled lazily out of the wood one early morning to find a small village town, he was nothing but relieved. He'd been walking for about 4 days and his supplies were running rather short; it was a long walk from Salem to anywhere apparently. His feet were sore as he walked into the center of the town. He may have gotten lost, for there were no people in the streets, however, he heard the distant murmurings of a crowd which he followed. As he approached, he could see the crowd that he'd heard. It seemed to be that the whole town was in the square, all of them making a semi-circle around a wooden platform with stocks. Dr. Watson meandered through the crowd up toward the edge of the platform to see what the fuss was about only to find that said platform was empty, but for the stocks.

The constant murmuring of the people suddenly turned to a low roar at the sound of a drum being played in a slow rhythm, almost as if they were leading someone to their grave; it sent chills down the doctor's arms. Over the heads of people, Dr. Watson could faintly see a small precession emerge from a building looking like the town jailhouse. He thought he saw a woman in the middle of the group, led slowly by the jailer and a well-dressed man with an elegantly carved cane in his hand. As they came closer to the platform, the crowd Dr. Watson stood in began to part for them. The woman, yes it was a woman after all, drug her feet as she walked, head down and something in her arms.

A woman standing next to the doctor spoke with venom in her tone to a young maid next to her "Gets what she deserves! No good having a girl like her in town, is it?"

Dr. Watson held his tongue to question her as his attention was once again directed at the woman, now sent up on her own to stand on the platform. Was this some kind of punishment? What had she done?

The woman continued to stand with her eyes toward the ground, hands clenching the bundle she held to her chest. She looked miserable and embarrassed, that much was certain by the way she held herself.

"Hussy!" Dr. Watson turned to see another old woman with a sneer of pure contempt on her face as she spat words at the young woman on the platform.

As Dr. Watson directed his attention back to the shamed girl, he was taken aback. She had straightened and lifted her eyes to look directly at the woman who had spoken abuse at her. There was a fire in the young woman's eyes and ferocity in her posture that made Dr. Watson rethink his previous deduction. Whatever punishment this woman was going through, she was taking it with pride and dignity. In that moment she looked incredibly strong where she stood, chin up and eyes ablaze. If Dr. Watson was honest, she was also absolutely beautiful. She had large, doe-eyes that seared into the crowd, long, wavy brown hair that shone in the sunlight, and she was very fair, as if she rarely saw the sun. For a moment, Dr. Watson lost his breath at the sight of her, but he quickly regained his composure for the sake of being a professional.

"Silence!" the doctor picked up his head and searched around for the large voice that called for quiet, his eyes finally settling on the well-dressed man he had seen walking the girl to the platform. He now stood on the balcony of a building in the square accompanied by two other men. "Reverend Wilson will now address the sinner!"

A thin, elderly man walked forward to the edge of the balcony, his eyes cast down on the young woman. She, in turn, had her eyes directed at the platform as well, the same fire in her gaze that had appeared some minutes ago. The elderly man spoke a quick prayer to the crowd, then directed his full attention back to the woman.

"Speak, woman," he began slowly, "speak the name of your fellow sinner that he may be under ignominy as well."

The crowd was deathly silent staring at the young woman to hear her response, but she said not a single word. She stared up at the man, a faint smirk on her lips, not a syllable escaping her.

"Speak!" the old man was in a heat now, angrier than before at the young sinner's stubbornness. This was not the first time they had attempted to get it out of her.

Dr. Watson watched as the elderly man retreated on the balcony in a huff to consult his companions. The youngest of the men, looking a little younger than the doctor himself, stood silent and uninvolved until they shoved him to the edge to address the woman on his own.

Dr. Watson observed the young man carefully as he stood stiff and pale at the rail. His eyes were a deep blue that the doctor could see even from the distance, his hair a loose mess of dark curls, and his garb confessing that he was a clergyman as well though it hung on his frame as though he were only bones; he was fiercely emaciated. The man stood still with an almost blank expression but for the subtle hint of worry and pain that Dr. Watson was sure only he saw. The young reverend clamped his hands down on the rail and stared into the young woman's eyes, mouth tremulous as he tried to find words.

"Ms. Hooper," his voice was a deep baritone, soothing and rich, "speak the name of your partner in sin. Speak his name so that he can be free of his burden and share your open ignominy."

Again the woman was silent as she stared, though the smirk has disappeared from her face. She shifted the bundle in her arms; Dr. Watson could now see that it was a newborn babe. It was beginning to make sense now.

"Please," the young minister spoke again, more urgently this time, "speak his name that he may not have to carry the shame and guilt in secrecy! It weighs on his heart like death! Don't be silent for mistaken feelings of pity for him!" The emotion in the young man's voice touched Dr. Watson. The minister obviously felt deeply for his parishioners.

"I cannot," the young woman finally spoke, her voice as beautiful as she was, Dr. Watson noticed, "I would rather bare his pain _and_ mine than speak his name and make him suffer as I do."

At this the young minister was speechless. His brow knit together and his lips pursed into a tight frown. He backed away from the rail of the balcony and turned his face away from the crowd with his fingers grasping at the cloth of his clerical.

The well-dressed man returned to the balcony. "This shameful sinner will face punishment for her doings and her partner will suffer doubly from hidden guilt."

Dr. Watson couldn't tear his eyes from the woman now, for streaks began to appear on her cheeks, though her pride stayed.

"She will forever carry a sign of her sin with her," at this the young minister returned his gaze to the crowed with puzzlement and worry slightly evident in his expression. "From now on, Molly Hooper shall wear a symbol of her ignominy on her heart for all to see." When he had finished, the man gestured for the young woman to show her symbol.

With a stern face, she lowered the baby from her chest. A bright, blood-red letter 'A' was embroidered, rather beautifully, into her dress. The thread was gold and the workmanship was impeccable. It seemed to Dr. Watson to be more of a decoration than a punishment, but obviously the crowd approved of it for they shouted scornful cheers at her, calling her cruel names.

The young minister stared at her sullenly, white knuckles clutching at his clothes, obvious pain shared with the poor woman. The punishment had apparently surprised him. He closed his eyes as if to silently pray to himself.

The jeers and shouts continued for some minutes as the woman continued to stand with the scarlet letter glaring on her bosom. Eventually the crowd began to disperse, but Dr. Watson stayed near the edge of the platform. After some time the jailer came to return the woman to her proper place in the jailhouse.

The doctor stayed where he was, watching the young woman walk away with the child in her arms. He silently considered all he had just witnessed when a lilting voice came from behind him.

"New to town as well?"

Dr. Watson turned to see a man a little older than he approaching him. The man had a scowl on his face that almost seemed like a smirk. "How did you know?" the doctor asked.

"You're still here," he gestured to the platform, "so am I."

"What does that prove?"

"Well, it was quite a sight just now, wasn't it? Quite an ordeal for the young woman. Of course _we _would stay, we're… intrigued."

The man's tone made Dr. Watson somewhat uncomfortable, but, ever polite and professional, he extended his hand.

"Jonathan Watson, Dr. Jonathan Watson," the other man extended his hand with a crooked smile and shook with Dr. Watson, "you are?"

"James. James Moriarty. We have something in common my friend," James said.

"Oh? What would that be," said Dr. Watson, breaking the handshake.

"We're both men of medicine, in a way. I'm a Professor in medicine from the old country. People ask me to… fix things." The man's crooked smile grew as he spoke.

"Then I'm sure we shall get along." John forced a smile and walked away from the man with a quick wave over his shoulder. That man had definitely made him uneasy.

"Yes," Professor Moriarty said quietly to himself, "I'm sure we will." He smirked to himself as he walked the opposite direction of Dr. Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

It hurt more than he ever would have imagined it did. Like he was being stabbed repeatedly in the chest. He grabbed his shirt tightly, clenching through the pain. He should have said something. He knew he should have.

"Hello?" the clergyman turned to face the door instantly, twisting in his chair.

Dr. Watson stared at the young man in the chair waiting for a reply. They both looked at each other inquisitively until the younger man realized he should speak.

"Oh, uh, hello indeed." He extended his hand in greeting to Dr. Watson as he stood from his seat, "I don't believe we've met."

The doctor shook politely trying to ignore how quickly the young man had masked his emotion when he had entered the church quarters. The young man's face was now blank save for a forced smile.

"Ah, no, I just came to town today, I've been journeying from Salem. Doctor Jonathan Watson, it's a pleasure." Dr. Watson gave a genuine smile; he felt this man was good for more than the obvious reason that he was a minister; he couldn't quite put his finger on _why_ he thought so, however.

"Wonderful, a physician! You've been needed around here, sir." The young man continued to smile and talk enthusiastically, though Dr. Watson could tell he had different things on his mind.

"Well, it seems you've got more than you need now." The minister cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

"How do you mean?"

"There was another bloke that spoke to me in the square, said he was new as well and that he's a professor of medicine. Seems to me you'll not want for medical help here anymore. Speaking of, where am I?"

The young minister drew blank for a moment, seeming weary of the doctor's words, but soon came back round.

"You, Dr. Watson—actually I'll call you John. So trivial to call you Doctor, don't you agree?"

"No, no it's fine," he wasn't sure where the enthusiasm went, but the minister was once again blank as a sheet, and very frank.

"Good. As I was saying, you've found yourself in Bakersville, Massachusetts. Congratulations."

"Bakersville. Lovely, right. Do you know where I might find a place to stay here? I've not got money, I'm afraid." John found himself speaking to the minister's back as he moved about the room shuffling parchment on his desk then sticking a knife with alarming force through the papers into the wood.

For a moment or two the young man didn't speak but rather continued to move about the small living space. Finally, he settled with an instrument in hand in a chair and looked toward a wall.

"If you're looking for lodging I suggest you seek out the governor. He can help you, might give you work too." The young man picked at the strings of his instrument idly as he directed John, expression blank as ever.

"Fine, right, thank you." John turned to go but paused at the door. He turned around to face the young man again. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

The minister looked up sharply from what he was doing and stared blankly at John. "I never gave it. But since you ask, it's Sherlock Holmes."

Odd name, thought John. "Right, thank you Reverend Holmes," John began to leave with a nod when the man said one last thing.

"Sherlock. Call me Sherlock."

John nodded and left, closing the door behind him; Sherlock returned to his violin, sorrowful frown returned to his face, and the pain returned to his chest.

He hoped maybe John would return too.


	3. Chapter 3

John was pretty sure he had been wandering through the small town for about twenty minutes before he finally got frustrated and asked someone where he could find the governor. They directed him to a lovely house, teeming with fantastic architecture and taste. As he walked up to the door he noticed the lovely rose garden in the yard. He could smell them from where he was on the porch; they were really quite beautiful, but they reminded him too much of the letter branded onto that woman. He tried to shake the thought from his head as he knocked on the solid door.

A few moments later, a servant woman opened the door and invited him inside to speak with the governor. If John thought the outside of this house was beautiful, then the inside was an absolute splendor. The walls were fantastic shades of rose and pink and covered in fanciful white designs. There were lovely paintings along the walls and fantastic pedestals in the hall topped with vases and other artifacts. The furniture was an absolute luxury, upholstered with only the finest materials. John was certain he'd never seen anything so marvelous and luxurious in his life.

While he stood in awe in the parlor, he missed the sound of someone walking up behind him, and the tapping of a cane on the floor. After growing impatient, the man behind John cleared his throat obnoxiously. John was quickly turned around to face the man. John recognized him immediately; it was the same well-dressed man from the square, the one on the balcony. Made sense that he was the governor he supposed. He'd have to be to own all the nice things he does.

"I suppose Sherlock sent you?"

John paused a moment, slightly baffled by the quick and accurate statement. "Uh—yes, he said you could help me find a place to stay and possibly get me some work. How did you-?"

"Sherlock and I—we have a close understanding of each other. Yes, I know a place you can stay. I believe you've already been there." The governor smirked, amused.

"I have? I don't understand."

"I know my brother would be happy to house you. He'll be absolutely… _ecstatic_."  
"Your brother. You mean Sherlock? He's your brother?"

"Indeed. Go to him whenever you find you need a home, he's rather obliged to help you there."

"But he sent me here. Wouldn't he have just said I could live with him?"

"No, not Sherlock. But he'll do it. Trust me."

John wasn't sure he trusted this man very much, but he felt he and Sherlock could get along very well given the chance. Besides, he was rather curious about the strange young man.

"Right, well then thank you I suppose. About some work?"

"Ah, yes. The woman, I'm guessing you saw her today? In the square? Her babe is ill and needs attention. I can tell you're a medical man. See to her, after that I do think you shall be this town's physician if you're up for it."

"Gladly, yes. Thank you.'

The governor nodded his head in pardon. John made his way back to the front door when the governor came into the hall.

"Oh, do tell Sherlock that Mycroft says 'Hello'. It is so rarely we speak."

"Right." John left even more curious about the young man than before. He certainly had strange family.

A strange family with strange names evidently.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for a late update, had a lot going on. This is a long chapter! Enjoy!**

**(Unfortunately, I own neither Sherlock, the Scarlet Letter, or any of their characters… Poo **** )**

Molly Hooper had never been more alone in her entire life, and yet there was someone with her! Although she wasn't entirely sure that the baby counted as companionship. She had been so lonely for the past 10 months and 21 days that she felt she would surely go mad. She felt slightly mad already for counting the days she'd been lonely. It verged on the insane.

But now Molly felt even more alone. Her child was convulsing in the make-shift crib they had given her in her jail cell and she worried for the little one's life. Her daughter was the only thing she had anymore, let alone the only thing she had left to love.

She sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair gently rocking the crib and humming as she stared off into space. When she was a child in England, she never would have pictured her life this way, in jail with a bastard child; what girl would dream of a future like hers? Molly could already feel herself spiraling into self-pity, but looking at her child, she knew she had to keep what dignity she had left. She wanted her daughter to dream of a better future than Molly could even imagine.

Daydreaming in her cell, she missed the creaking hinges of the wooden jail doors; she noticed she had company only when her cell door opened, introducing a vaguely familiar figure. He had short,-cropped, black hair and the beginnings of stubble the same shade. He was thin and looked scraggly as if he'd been away from civilization too long. He could faintly see his eyes in the dim light of the room, but she could tell they were a thick, dark brown nearly black as night if the light were right. The instant he spoke, Molly's whole body froze and her heart felt as though it would surely beat out of her chest.

"Dear," his voice was still the sickly-sweet lilt it had been before, "it's been too long, don't you agree?"

Molly could see his twisted wolf grin as he swept slowly into the room, movement clearly directed at the crib.

At once Molly stood firm and tall in front of her child, defending her if it would be her final action. "Would you hurt the child because of me? It's not her fault I was unfaithful, bu—," she was cut off as he shook his finger in the air mockingly.

"Don't be silly, Dear," a sickly feeling crept into her stomach at the sound of his voice, "I'm not here to hurt anyone. Have you forgotten I'm a man of medicine? Is your child not ill?"

"You're a professor, nothing more," she cut back quickly, "I'm not sure I trust you with the life of my child."

"My dear Molly," his mocking tone made Molly want to rip out his tongue, "I've got enough knowledge to cure what ails your babe, and I have no disdain for you or your child no matter how you cheated me and became some whor—,"

"That's not fair, you _know_ that's not fair!" Molly yelled now with a rage she wasn't aware she contained. "I told you before I was ever forced into marriage with you that I never loved you and _never would_! I hardly think you can blame me for anything I've done to you."

At this Moriarty stopped and smirked at his young wife. He'd never seen her so heated, it was a good look for her. She was always so timid, he rather liked what he'd made her. But then, it may not have been he who transformed her. It was very likely the man who'd stolen her heart and body. If James Moriarty ever felt much, he may have thought he was jealous, but then again, he was James Moriarty, where did feelings play a part in his life?

He made to open a pouch that was slung over one shoulder; from it he pulled a small vile of liquid which he handed forward to Molly.

"Give this to the child," she looked at his outstretched hand with a wariness that was not unobserved by Moriarty. "It will cure her quickly of her convulsions, just have her take it!"

Still cautious, Molly took the vile from his hand and held it near her own lips. "If there is any way this is harmful, you can be certain I would not first give it to my child. I trust you with nothing, especially not her life."

Molly drew up her shoulders in preparation and drank a small amount of the liquid. She swore she held her breath for ages before she was finally satisfied that the draught was harmless. Without a glance at Moriarty she flew to her child's side and administered the medicine. Soon the child who was previously tight and pained in her crib was silent, soft wheezes escaping her mouth as she dozed off into relieved sleep.

When Molly left the side of her child, she saw Moriarty sitting in the only chair in the small cell. He had his hands folded neatly in his lap and his head down in concentrated thought. Molly dared not breathe a word of question at him; this man scared her more than anything she could imagine. The whole room was silent, Molly dared not breathe. Moriarty sat in the chair for a long while, never moving, barely breathing it seemed, until finally he looked up to meet the troubled eyes of his young wife.

"Molly," he started slowly, a bitter smirk forming on his lips, "I'll make a deal with you."

Of course Molly was wary of his deal; he always got what he wanted, the other person in the deal hardly ever benefit. She was worried for her child mostly, of what would happen to her if the deal was broken. Or worse, if her child was the basis of the deal! She held her breath awaiting his proposal.

"I suggest it is best for both of us that no one knows of our… history," his chin dipped downward, an unearthly grimace crossed his face before he continued, "I propose we keep that little secret to ourselves, and for all intents and purposes, we are no longer wed. Can we make this deal?"

Moriarty held out one dirty, chaffed hand to her. She looks at him cautiously assuming there was more to this plan than he had made clear, but not seeing a better option on the horizon, she made to shake his hand. What a relief it would be to be free from this man! No one would need to know, she would no longer be chained to the man in front of her. This, she thought to herself, is a deal I cannot pass up.

As soon as the soft flesh of her dainty hand met his gnarled one, the smirk on his face threatened to tear his cheeks. He stood up quickly clapping his hands enthusiastically. Molly was filled with sudden dread; she had just made a deal with the devil, and the devil does not play by the rules.

"I almost forgot, Dear!" James' deep ebony eyes were filled with a mirth that frightened Molly to no end, his teeth in such a smug smirk they nearly blinded her in the dark room, "There is something you need to do for me as well in order for this deal to be complete."

Molly was frozen, absolutely petrified. She could feel an indignant rage grow somewhere in her belly, but she could feel she wouldn't make it known. This was the time to handle things rationally and calmly. That was the only way to beat the devil.

"I require the name of the man," Moriarty said very haughtily.

As he spoke, Moriarty closed in on her, gently tracing the outline of the letter embroidered on her chest. Molly burned with shame and fury, but kept a calm visage while he silently mocked.

"You never brought this up in the agreement before we shook," she whispered through clenched teeth, "so I do believe it is void from the deal. I don't need to tell you anything."

Moriarty's finger stopped on Molly's bosom, unmoving as he considered her counter with malice in his features.

"You may have me there," spite dripped from his words like venom from a snake, "but don't you want to? Just a little bit?"

Molly could feel her lip twitch in anger. "Wouldn't it feel better? Aren't you a little bit proud of it?" Moriarty's sardonic tongue crept its way into her mind, each word penetrating her thoughts when he tried to close them out. "Don't you _love_ him?" Moriarty whispered his final words so near to Molly's ear she could feel his breath on her, and truly it made her ill, but at his final question she felt the tears begin to pool in her eyes, heart clenching.

At once she tore herself away from his demonic form, turning to face his jeering countenance. She truly, truly believed he was the devil.

"That, of course, is the very reason I will not tell you his name; I want no harm to come to him, especially by your hand." At her words, Molly was proud. It wasn't often she defended anyone, even herself, when confronted.

James' smile vanished for but an instant, returning with the same mockery it held before. He stood himself up tall once again and bore his gaze into Molly so that he heart beat uncomfortably.

"Who ever said he'd be hurt by _my_ hand? I only wish to know him so that every day I may see him fall further and further away from you, from happiness, and from life. Should he die, you can be fairly sure it wasn't I who ended him." The once jeering tone the man had held was now a twisted anger that seethed from him like vapor. He kept his calm demeanor, but Molly felt more endangered than before.

"And when I do discover him, because you can be sure I will, I will burn the hea—"

The jail cell door opened abruptly and silenced Moriarty instantly. The lines of anger and contempt on his face were erased as he turned to smile at the man entering the cell. He was a shorter man, quite stocky, with dirty yellow hair that barely brushed his neck. He had kind features and a warm smile that cheered her subconsciously.

"Ah, Doctor Watson! What a pleasure to see you here," it shocked Molly how quickly James could put on a mask.

The younger man at the door looked up slightly shocked to see Moriarty. When recognition of the man's profession set it to the doctor's mind, he reached out his hand in greeting.

"I hadn't realized they had sent you as well," the man's voice was incredibly gentle, "If I'd known I may not have dropped by." Molly saw something in the man's eyes that resembled something akin to uneasiness as he shook James' hand.

"Well, I actually must be on my way," with one more look towards Molly and a curt nod to John, Moriarty strode out of the room closing the door behind him with a thud.

After a moment of silence, John turned to beam awkwardly at Molly. "Seemed a bit rushed, didn't it?"

Molly gave a small smile that John may have missed if he hadn't been staring directly at her. As he saw her up close, he realized she was even more beautiful than he'd first imagined, though a little pale from being locked away. Her eyes glistened, but he couldn't tell if it was because they were simply dazzling or if she had been crying. He cheeks were colored a light pink that made her glow in the faint light of a candle or two, and her hair she had done up in a plait that shone in the dim lights as well.

As the man stood near the door, Molly began to grow nervous. He looked kind and gentle enough, but for the past several minutes he just stood staring at her with his mouth slightly open. She began to retreat to her chair next to the crib, gently rocking her child and casting wary glances at the doctor.

As soon as she began to back away from him, John realized he must be acting terribly unnerving, just staring and not saying a word. What a great idiot he was around ladies sometimes.

"Ahem," John cleared his throat inelegantly while walking towards the child, "the professor was helpful then? It appears your child is no longer having convulsions."

"Yes, he gave her a draught that has apparently calmed her, but I'm not sure I completely trust his methods."

"Me either," Molly heard the doctor say under his breath.

"Pardon?"

John looked up, embarrassed. "Oh, it's just," he blushed slightly, realizing his rudeness, "I met him earlier in the square. He just seems sort of—"

"Snake-like?" Molly cut in.

Pausing and laughing briefly, the kind doctor shook his head in agreement to Molly's brash words.

It was several minutes before either spoke again, for the doctor seemed to prefer silence as he inspected the child that lay sleeping peacefully. He took the young child heart beat and observed her breathing; soft and regular, healthy as could be asked for. Finally when he was done with his inspection, he returned his gaze to the babe's mother.

"Molly, I can say confidently that your child is healthy and relieved of sickness now; you can thank the professor for that miracle." He gave a warm smile and patted the sleeping child's head with fondness.

Molly sighed with great relief, reaching down to pull the quilt up over her child. Then she paused with confusion, gaze returning to the doctor who still smiled with care.

"How do you know my name?"

At first it seemed the doctor didn't hear her, but instead continued to pat the head of the child, pleased that it was healthy. Eventually when he looked up to see the mother's curious expression, he quickly responded.

"Oh, I was at the—the ah—I was in the square this morning." Giving an apologetic smile, the doctor removed his hand from the crib and folded them both behind his back.

Molly flushed with born-again shame, stumbling into her chair. The doctor rushed to her side asking if she was alright, but she simply waved him off as she stared into space regaining herself.

"Doctor," she spoke softly, "I do believe it is proper that I know your name too, since you know mine."

Dr. Watson smiled lightly from his place next to her chair. "I'm Dr. John Watson, sorry for not introducing myself sooner."

Molly turned her head toward him kindly, "Well, Dr. Watson, it is good of you to come to Bakersville, we've been in need of a doctor for some time."

Smiling warmly, John began to pick up his instruments and make for the door. Stopping once he opened it, he turned back to Molly once more.

"Molly—may I call you Molly?—I feel I should offer that if you want a friend, I am very glad to fill the position."

A smile formed on her face so happy, it nearly reached her ears. "Doctor Watson, if you truly knew how wonderful an offer that is—I need a friend now more than I need blood in my body. Thank you." Molly felt grateful tears wet her eyes.

With a nod, John made to leave, but popped his head in for the last word.

"And Molly, please call me John." A final smile, and then he was gone.

Molly was left in the dark with her child, but there was at least a fragment of light in her path now; someone who knew what a sinner she was had asked for her friendship. Perhaps the rest of her life wouldn't be as miserable as she'd thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for SUCH a late update, but I have been quite seriously swamped. Hope I can update more often now! Thank you for the patience! Sadly, I don't own either the Scarlet Letter of Sherlock, but whatever, I'm over it. Enjoy.**

_About 2 years previous._

Honestly, everything was overwhelming to Mary when she got off of the large, wooden ship that had been her home for the last 3 months. The months had been filled with constant bad smell, sea sickness, and poor food; however, looking over the deck as passengers began to file into smaller boats, she was very afraid. She had never even left her small hometown in England before she got on the ship; this experience was too much.

The smell of pine and freshness hit her like a tangible force when she set foot on solid ground for the first time in months. She could taste the thick scent of trees and dirt and salt with every breath. The freshness almost relieved the nervous knot forming in her stomach; she had never—in her entire life—seen so much natural beauty. England was so crowded and stuffed with human traffic, it was impossible to see any trees or flowers. Even the sky was more beautiful, so much more blue and bright. The smog from wood burned fires in England had clouded the inner city air of London. Subconsciously, Mary Hooper took a deep, sobering breath. Foreign scents overrode her brain, not able to process them all at once or even identify half of them to begin with.

"Pardon," a sailor carrying a large trunk in one arm and a sack of raw vegetables in the other made to move past her; she then realized she was standing directly in the path of others. Moving out of his way with her small amount of luggage in her arms, she made to explore her new home. How strange it was to be away from the bustling streets and crowded markets of London; the overwhelming fear returned to her.

Off the beach not far, Mary could see the tree line of a grand and dense forest. Pines crowded other pines, leaves and needles spilling over one another and completely hiding anything that may be inside. Mary, ever adventurous despite her new apprehension, decided to explore ignoring the fact that she had never actually been into a forest and had no idea what may be there. Not hesitating more than a second, she hiked her luggage bag onto her shoulder and gingerly stepped over a rotted log.

Not far into the forest, she came across a lightly trodden path. Seemed odd, she thought to herself; the path looked regularly used, but only by one or two people at the most. It was very narrow, her dress brushed against the tall grasses, weeds, and trees as she walked the small path. She wondered absently if she had ruined the hem of her dress; that was a disappointing thought, she had worked on this dress for several months before leaving London.

Continuing down the little path with the company of her thoughts, she completely overlooked the scatter of loose pages—apparently from some sort of book—on the leafy ground. She continued to walk, studying the slivers of light that passed through the canopy and landed on the ground periodically. She took one step after another until, suddenly, she took a sudden dive towards the ground. She vaguely heard a grunt and a crumple as she fell, but mostly all she heard were her own cries.

"What do you think you're doing?" a deep voiced boomed. Molly shuddered a breath, eyes still clenched from when she tripped. She lay on the ground with her arms out in front of her and nose pointed into the dirt. She could hear someone getting to their feet behind her; she hoped desperately she hadn't stumbled into one of those Indians she had heard about.

"You could have gotten us both seriously hurt!" She could tell now that the man was no Indian, his voice was far too English and proper; she noted mentally that he didn't actually sound angry, just seriously irritated and concerned.

"I—I'm so sorry, I—"Mary struggled for words like she struggled to get to her feet; if her dress wasn't ruined before, surely it was now.

Carefully, she stumbled to her feet and jolted around to face her companion. When she turned she could physically feel the breath leave her body. The man standing in front of her—irritated expression and all—was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. At least she thought so; it was awfully dark in the forest. "I-," she struggled for words again, now feeling like a complete idiot, "I'm sorry," she finished weakly.

Still brushing himself off, the man heaved a sigh and shook his head. After a moment he readjusted his doublet and breeches, which she noticed didn't fit him in the least. She also noticed that he lacked a ruff around his neck and wore no hat; the strings on the front of his doublet were loose as well. He was like no Puritan man she had ever seen.

Eventually he looked up and caught her gaze. Mary was positively floating. What that what love felt like? Floating? She mentally cursed herself for being foolish and thinking of such things. As he held her gaze, she saw his face soften subtly. He sighed again and tipped his head forward as if apologetically. When he looked up again she blushed; he was observing her intensely, seeking out every detail it seemed, though he appeared unphased.

"You just came over," he stated simply, voice monotonous and calculating. "First time away from home, and quite the trip I'd say. You have no family with you, but you don't really mind; you like the freedom. You know a trade and plan to make your living on it; you have to, you are obviously unmarried."

Mary blushed furiously now. How on Earth did he know all of that? She was amazed despite the few wrong observations he made. She thought it better not to bring that up however.

"There's one thing I'm not sure of," he said stoically, "why are you out here in the middle of the forest? You have no reason to be."

Mary was silent for a moment still trying to absorb everything he had just rapidly shot at her. Finally, when all was registered in her mind, she took a deep breath and answered him. "I was just strolling, thought I would explore before I settled in to the town."

The scrutiny in his eyes as he watched her set the hairs on her neck on end. He nodded slowly and tucked his hands behind his back. He looked ready to turn his back and leave, but Mary stopped him, quite without thinking.

"Wait, I could ask the same about you, sir."

The tall man stopped mid step and turned to face her again. "I come out here to think," he said, "I find it is a good place to relax and be alone with my thoughts. Though, you really don't need to know that, do you?" The scrutiny in his gaze returned. "Who are you?"

"Mary Hooper, seamstress from London."

He took a look at her hands folded in front of her and a small smirk formed on his lips. "You've sown up more than cloth, that much is obvious."

Mary's gaze turned steely and pale for a fraction of a second, but it did not go unnoticed by the grinning man in front of her.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't ask. It is _your_ business." She could taste the slight annoyance in his words.

He turned on his heel once more and made his way down the trail towards, what she assumed, was the town. With no other choice and many more questions, she began to follow him. She took large bounding steps compared to his normal strides, for his legs were much longer than hers.

When she was a short length behind him, she forced up the courage to speak to him again. "Listen," she began, out of breath, "why were you on the ground in the middle of the path?"

The man snorted and walked on. "Obviously, because I was conducting an experiment."

"Oh? And what was that?"

He was quiet for a moment before he answered, "I was seeing how long I could lie on the path before someone stepped on me."

Mary's brow furrowed and an amused smile formed on her lips. "You were sleeping, weren't you?"

Suddenly he jolted to a stop and turned to face her, more near to her than he had been back where she'd stumbled over him. His face was cold and stony for a long, drawn out moment before a small smile cracked in the corner of his mouth. "Yes. Perhaps you are more observant than I thought; don't think that's impressive though, it still wasn't a brilliant deduction on your part." With that, he turned and returned to his previous pace.

Mary hung back for a moment, both parts irritated and amused. This man was difficult wasn't he? Every time he spoke she felt as though she would hit him, but luckily for him, he had her completely entranced.

OoOoO

It seemed as though they had been walking for hours, though she was sure it had only been about 30 minutes. She could feel her feet begin to drag and scrape through the dirt; she prayed she wouldn't need new shoes as well.

At last, she saw a glimmer of sunlight ahead of the man. The path broadened and gave way to a sanded road which, eventually, led straight to the middle of town. Still following the man, she gazed at the buildings surrounding her in the square; everything was so different than London. It was more spacious and so much cleaner. She believed she was already very fond of Bakersville, Massachusetts.

Pulled out of her trance by the sound of the bolt on a door being undone, she saw that the man was opening a wooden door to what she imagined was his home.

Before he had a chance to close the door on her, she grabbed his arm, not satisfied with the few answers she had obtained.

"What's your name?" Mary cursed her mousy voice.

He stared at her blankly for a long moment before taking a long breath.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. I really must be going, see you soon, Molly Hooper."

He shut the door so quickly, she didn't even have time to blink. She thought for a moment, still standing on his door step. Molly? Had he called her _Molly_? She hadn't been called that since she was a young, young girl, not even old enough to go to the market on her own. Why call her a childish name? She mentally put it on her fast growing list of things to ask Mr. Holmes later.

As she walked away from the house, she considered the name. In truth, she didn't mind at all; it made her feel young, not that she wasn't still quite youthful, but it made her feel rejuvenated. When she finally found the small cottage home she knew was for her, she no longer felt any anxiety about being in the New World. There were too many things to look forward to, no time for fear, she thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Walking idly through the square once more, John found himself at the young minister's door. He made to knock but paused as he heard crashes and tearing of parchment from inside. Something shattered. John's instincts quickly kicked in as he opened the door and—fearing there was some sort of struggle within—stepped inside.

Contrary to what the doctor thought had been happening, he merely witnessed Sherlock throwing his belongings and tearing up pieces of a hand-written book. His face was the manifestation of pure rage it seemed, cheeks glistening with stray tears as he continued the rampage. Eventually, John realized he should stop the man from destroying everything he owned. He cleared his throat and bounced on his heels waiting for the reverend to notice him.

The young minister looked up from his storm, wooden chair held deftly above his head ready to be tossed into the fireplace. His teeth were clenched and his blue eyes glistened. After a shared stare, he set the chair down forcefully and marched to where John stood; he'd be lying if he said the man didn't scare him a little in that moment.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock's voice was gravely and low; John could feel the pent up emotion drip from his tongue. He didn't even bother to wipe away the tears from his stained face.

"Your brother," John started weakly at first, "he told me I could live here. With you."

Sherlock lifted his head and backed away a step. "Mycroft," he whispered, contempt evident in his voice. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and tossed a piece of paper he found stuck to his clothing.

"Yes. He said you would be happy to house me," John wasn't sure he would want to live with this man; perhaps he was insane?

Sherlock didn't answer, simply striding over to the chair he was so ready to destroy moments ago and plopping himself down onto it. He put his hands together and rested his chin atop them. For a long moment he was silent and stared into the fire place that was now littered with random trinkets and belongings. John stood in the door way still, not certain how to proceed after what he had just seen. The man must have mood swings, John thought absently.

After the long pause, Sherlock turned his head to the door with a look of positive annoyance etched into his features. "Well?" he snapped, agitated, "Are you going to sit and make yourself at home or not?"

John was startled by his blunt attitude. Seeking out the other chair in the room that sat near the one Sherlock occupied, he sat and observed the minister curiously. By now, the man had cleared the moisture from his face and restored his expression to near blankness. John wondered how he was so easily able to mask his feelings.

There was another pregnant silence before John spoke. "What was that about, if you don't mind me asking?"

Sherlock was silent, he didn't even bother to turn and face John. He continued to stare at the fire, chin still resting oh extended fingertips. John was about ready to give up on getting a word out of the man when he spoke in a low voice.

"I just get… bored. And angry. It's really nothing to concern yourself with, honestly, just a mood."

Still not facing John, the minister moved his hands deftly to the desk that sat next to him. He picked up the book—which John could now see was a journal—and shut it. He held it near to him, but otherwise ignored its existence. John decided he wouldn't bring it up either.

When the silence became too much for John to sit comfortably in, he tried to make conversation. He turned his attention to the fireplace as well and began to speak in a light tone.

"I heard that woman was let out of the jail today and allowed to return home. You know, M—"

"Molly," he grumbled.

John returned his gaze to the man for a moment, regarding him with curiosity until an obvious realization came to him. "Yes, of course," he chuckled casually, "you would know her, how foolish of me. She's a part of your parish!"

Sherlock gave a forced smile at John's laughter, trying as he might to at least respect social graces.

"It's nice she's out," John began again, "jail is no place to raise a child. At least now she can go home in peace."

There was no reply from Sherlock, his eyes still locked on the flames licking the edges of the bricks. John saw Sherlock's lips part very slightly, the bottom one drooping slightly; he seemed to almost be entranced and dozing off. John really would have thought so if Sherlock hadn't moved to place the book back on the desk.

"She's a very nice woman," John said, unperturbed by Sherlock's seeming lack of interest, "I had the privilege of meeting her not too long ago in the cell. Her child was ill."

Sherlock's head turned slightly in John's direction, but his eyes were still directed away. "How is the child now?"

John commended the minister for taking such an active and protective interest in his parishioner's health and wellbeing. "Oh, she's just fine. That medical professor was there before I was and gave her a draught. It fixed her right up, I only checked on her."

John might have seen Sherlock flinch if he'd been looking at him.

"That professor," said Sherlock, "what did you say his name was?"

John thought for a moment, the name escaping him momentarily. At last he grasped it, "Moriarty, I think. James Moriarty."

Sherlock shuddered internally, but kept his face impassive. Without warning, he got to his feet and went into another room. John sat still in his chair observing the fire; this man sure played by his own social rules, John mentally commented.

Minutes later, Sherlock returned with two wooden cups of lager. Gracelessly, he shoved one cup in John's face. He gratefully took it in both hands and smiled; a good lager would be perfect at that moment.

He took a sip and instantly grimaced. "What is this? I thought it was lager!" The foul taste swam in John's mouth and he had nothing to wash it down with.

Sherlock smirked lightly and took a sip of his own drink. After he swallowed he looked up with amusement in his eyes. "I don't really drink lager; it dulls my mind. This is tea. Well, the best I can make around here."

John's mouth hung open partly because he was shocked anyone could make tea so horrible and partly because he didn't want to taste anything at the moment. Sherlock chuckled to himself at John's disgusted expression.

"Trust me," he said, smiling now, "it isn't my favorite tea either."

"Are you sure it's even tea?" John was, unsuccessfully, trying to remove the taste from his mouth.

"I've had better, I'm just not very skilled at preparing it. If you really want a good cup of tea," Sherlock stalled; the smile faded from him and his cold expression returned for a moment. After a moment of blank silence, he shook himself out of his pause and placed the smile back on his face, though it seemed more forced now. "You can get a good cup from Ms. Hooper. I'd wager she makes the best in Massachusetts. I, on the other hand, most definitely, make the worst."

There was another small pause, then both men started to chuckle. "I don't what you did, mate," John managed between chortles, "but that was truly, truly awful!"

Sherlock continued to chuckle and looked into his cup disapprovingly. "It is rather like swill, isn't it?" He extended his arm and poured it out onto the wooden floor, still laughing lightly along with John.

"There you go, I think you've found its proper place," John was positively giggling now, "It belongs in Hell!"

They laughed together and John poured out his drink as well. After a while the snickers died out and both men sighed contentedly. Sherlock still had a small smile on his face as he looked into his now empty cup. He moved his fingers over the sides of it absently, brow furrowing and a small frown denting his mouth the longer he stared.

After John's laughter had subsided, he stood and made to wandering around the small living space, observing the other three rooms that lay through open doorways. After a small bit of exploring, he found an empty chamber room with only a bed that was covered in a thin layer of dust. "I suppose this is my room?" he asked, poking his head in and looking around the bare room.

Sherlock nodded and made a sound of recognition. John emerged from the room feeling satisfied that he had a place to stay now. Then he remembered the awful taste in his mouth; an idea came to him.

"I think I'll do just what you said," John said with a smile on his face yet again, "I'm going to head over to Ms. Hooper's for a cup of _proper_ tea. Come along?"

John made for the door and waited for Sherlock to follow him, but paused when he realized that he had not made any movement to follow.

"Sherlock?"

The minister sat still and silent in his chair and waved John away dismissively. "I've got a sermon to write actually," a tone of resignation coated his words, "you can go. I'll stay here."

John frowned but decided not to push it. He had only just met the man after all.

"All right," John grabbed his hat and pulled open the door, saying goodbye as he stepped out and closed it behind him.

When he was gone, Sherlock began to pick up the living space, clearing it of the debris he had scattered around. The place would need to be livable if there was going to be another person here again. He felt obligated to at least clean up _one_ time, even if he never did again. First impressions were important weren't they? Sherlock considered that for a moment and recognized that he had probably already made quite the first impression on Dr. Watson, and not a very normal one at that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the extremely long hiatus on this one, but the holiday season can really distract! I own neither Sherlock or Scarlet Letter, however much I wish that I did! ;)**

John would have been lying if he said he wasn't a little bit excited to be seeing Ms. Hooper again. However recently he may have seen her, she had a very definite appeal about her, but it was beyond obvious to him that she was damaged. And it was even more plain to him that she was keeping many secrets. She was always reserved even when she seemed completely comfortable and chatty. There were always things she held back just underneath the surface but not quite exposed enough to see. John had made it a goal of his to find out more about her, hence his multiple visits to her small home within the last two weeks. She would make him tea- tea that was actually suitable to drink- and he would check on her young daughter, Pearl's, health. When he had finished his tea and Molly had finally gotten Pearl back to sleep in the small bedroom connected to the kitchen area by a door, they settled down to chat. John liked to talk about Salem and his practice there but was much happier listening to Molly's ramblings. Once he got her started about Pearl or her sewing he could hardly get her to stop, but there was always a line that she never crossed. She never divulged any details about her past, she never talked about the father of her child, and she never talked about the brazen letter on her bosom. John had noticed this early in their friendship and had made it a point not to push the subjects on her. He considered her a friend and didn't want to scare her away with his curiosity. He assumed that someday she would open up to him more; at least he hoped she would.

John was still in the sitting room of the church quarters where he had been living with reverend Holmes since his arrival. After the tantrum he had walked in on two weeks ago, the place had been very quiet and tidy. The throwing of objects and burning of furniture had not since happened and Sherlock was pleasant if introverted. He was still unsure why his roommate had been in such a state when he first came to move in, but this was another subject he thought best not to push. Sherlock was just... Well, he was just Sherlock and that's all John really knew. But he could tell he was a good man at heart, he was just better off with his own thoughts most of the time; this was John's hypothesis anyway.

John was puttering around the dingy sitting room while he was getting ready to meet Molly at her home for tea again. Looking for his hat had become an arduous task in the last 4 days; it seemed Sherlock enjoyed hiding it from him to ease his boredom. At first John hadn't minded, but now he had somewhere to be and this game was getting a little old. After looking in an empty chest for the third time, he'd had enough. As calmly as he could manage, he turned to where Sherlock sat on the floor, bouncing a wooden ball off the floor in front of him and catching it in one hand as it bounced back off the adjacent wall. He did this an awful lot, John noticed, and he was glad he'd tuned it out by now because it was a very annoying, repetitive sound. John looked at the clergyman for a short moment before he started to address him in a casual voice.

"Sherlock, have you seen my hat?"

Sherlock didn't move except to continue bouncing that damned piece of wood off the wall. He kept his eyes fixed on its movements and his body turned away from John.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was made of sterner stuff now; there was an edge in his tone that must have caught Sherlock's attention because now he at least caught the ball and didn't bounce it again.

After a drawn out moment of complete silence, Sherlock tilted his head towards John whose patience had, apparently, no limit.

"Why do you need it?" Sherlock's voice was all mock curiosity and arrogance. John had a mind to give him a smack if her weren't a minister; John only forgave his temper because his youth and his reverence. If it weren't for that, he could very well have lost a tooth by now.

"I'm going to have tea with Molly," John answered, calm demeanor still intact.

A snort of derisive laughter escaped Sherlock suddenly. "Again?"

"Yes, again." John was just about fed up with the man still seated on the floor.

"Might we expect a happy announcement within the fortnight?" Sherlock's tone was clipped and harsh; it amazed the doctor at times that this rude young man was a man of God at all.

"Ms. Hooper and I are friends, nothing more." _At the moment_, John thought subconsciously.

Sherlock pouted a moment more before he pointed vaguely toward his bedroom door and returned to bouncing the wooden ball aimlessly. Sighing, John opened Sherlock's door and searched for his hat once more; he swore sometimes that the man he lived with was a child.

It didn't take him long to find his hat once Sherlock had pointed him the right direction. It had been carelessly tossed into the trunk at the end of Sherlock's bed, covering a leather bound book and an extra pair of breaches and shoes; they looked as though they hadn't been worn in a year or so. Perhaps they didn't fit him anymore, but more likely it was because they had stains and smudges all over them.

John donned his hat as he came out of Sherlock's room, gently shutting the door behind him despite his irritation. He made his way to the front door without a word of goodbye to his roommate. When he was out on the small dirt road of town outside their door, he noticed he could still hear the thumping of the wooden ball against the wall. John inwardly cursed that man's quirks, though he knew he enjoyed Sherlock's companionship. But dear lord in heaven, could he ever be intolerable at times. John laughed silently and walked in the direction of Molly's.

OoOoO

As soon as Sherlock was sure the doctor was far enough away, he caught to ball from the air and stood suddenly, ignoring the rush of blood to his head. He moved to the window that sat between their front door and the fireplace. Carefully brushing back a thick, canvas curtain, Sherlock watched as John walked, or hobbled rather as he had a slight limp, towards the outskirts of town. He felt his blank expression fade into a deep scowl when John reached Molly's front step. Her cottage was distant, but vaguely visible from the window. He saw his new friend remove his hat and bow when she opened the door waving him in. He didn't have to see her to know she was smiling brightly at him, eyes twinkling. He felt ill.

Dropping the curtain Sherlock moved to the center of the room, wooden ball clenched painfully tight in his hand. They were too close, he could tell. She wouldn't have him over so often if they weren't. Anger pulsed through his temples as his logical side reasoned with him. _Molly is kind, of course she's not going to refuse his company; that would be rude._ Sherlock felt the pressure relieved slowly as he reminded himself of her kind heart. Of course it was just a friendship, how foolish he was being. Slowly releasing his grip on the ball, he collapsed into a chair that sat in front of the fire. _I'm letting my imagination get to me_, he thought ruefully, _I just need to go see her. That will calm me._ After a moment he also realized he was in need for a cup of drinkable tea as well.

OoOoO

"Well he is a bit eccentric, isn't he?"

"Eccentric isn't exactly what I'd call him," John said with a suggestive smile on his lips. Both he and Molly broke out into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, John, you mustn't say such things! He is the governor after all!" Continuing to chuckle, John picked his cup of tea up off the wooden table in Molly's sitting room, laughing in between sips.

"Well, he does dress rather fancily, doesn't he?" Molly only smiled and sipped at her own tea.

"Yes," she said after a moment, "but I believe that must be because he has money. And power." Molly sighed, laughter subsiding with an air of bitterness settling around her.

"Something wrong?" John set down his cup, attention fully on his companion.

Molly shook her head and smiled, attention seeming to be focused on her cup. "It's just," she said sadly, "if I had what Mycrof—I mean the Governor—had, I wouldn't be in such a shameful position." She gestured vaguely to her chest, the embroidered letter catching John's eye when he followed her hand. "If I had power no one would dare to look at me the way they do now. And if I had any money to speak of," she laughed bitterly, finally looking up to meet John's eyes, "if I had money I wouldn't still be here. I'd have taken my Pearl and—"Molly paused, eyes lost for a moment before she dropped her gaze again. "Well I would have taken Pearl and our things and gone somewhere _better_."

John was silent. This was more than she had ever shared with him before and he was more than a little shocked. But he also felt honored to be the audience of her confession. He wondered if she had shared this with anyone else. As far as he could tell he was the only one that ever shared more than a word or disgusted glance with her. A wave of pity washed through John and, without much thought, he reached out and placed a calloused hand over her own, gently running his thumb across the ridges of her dainty knuckles. He felt her go ridged for a moment before she relaxed and met his eyes once again. She offered a trembling smile. He could see the tears waiting to be shed building up around her eyes and felt the urge to do something, anything, to give her more comfort. Before he had a chance to act, Molly removed her hand from his, breaking the trance John had felt himself falling into. Shakily getting to her feet, Molly mumbled something about his cup and then picked it up, bringing it to the kitchen along with hers.

John sat unmoving in his seat, mind replaying the moment that had just occurred. His thumb unconsciously continued to run circles along the surface of the table.

"Well, I'll be heading into town soon to buy some threads," Molly said quietly, back turned towards the doctor who still sat at her table. "I need to get Pearl dressed and ready."

Brought back to the present by her subtle hints to leave, he shook his head and got to his feet.

"Shall I come by again tomorrow for tea?" John made his way to the front door and grabbed his hat from the hook on the wall.

Nodding vaguely and turning around, Molly smiled. "Yes, that would be lovely."

John smiled and nodded to her curtly before taken a step out of the small cottage.

"Wait!" Molly moved to the door with an embarrassed face and gently grabbed the sleeve of his coat. "I forgot, tomorrow is the Sunday. It really isn't proper to visit for tea on The Lord's day. Perhaps the day after you can come for tea?"

"Oh that's right," John laughed at their shared mistake and nodded at her suggestion. "Yes, the day after. I'll be here."

With one more shared smile and a wave, he began his short walk back to the church. He couldn't help but feel a small bounce in his stride all the way down the path, and for the life of him he couldn't remove the smile from his face. However he also realized, he didn't care.


	8. Chapter 8

**So…. That was a ridiculous amount of time that passed! Sorry about that long break, but I've had a lot of family stuff happening, but I'm back! And I really want to get these stories updated! So here is more Scarlet and I will hopefully have another chapter up sometime this week! And if you are waiting for any other stories I've started, I'm getting there and they should be updated really, really soon! Thanks for your patience (At least I hope you aren't too upset! :P) Enjoy! I don't own anything, sadly.**

_2 years previous._

Sherlock had realized from an early age that people didn't find him very normal; He had also realized early on that everyone else was absolutely intolerable. They irritated him to no end with their blank stares and blatant unintelligence. And the chatter. He couldn't stand the useless chatter.

That's how he found himself in the forest quite often. It was peaceful and, more importantly, it was quiet. No useless, trivial banter about weather or the price of butter. He was content—well, as content as Sherlock Holmes could get—in the forest.

He had worn a path through the grass that covered the ground. Each time he went out into his hide away he brought his journal; with the quiet peace the forest gave came a lot of thoughts that Sherlock was determined to record for later speculation. Occasionally, if he felt he had no more thoughts, he'd write a quick sermon, though he often waited to write one the night before his next service.

On this particular sunny day, however, Sherlock was having a hard time recording anything at all. He hadn't slept in some time and he just couldn't concentrate on any one thought in his mind for more than a few seconds; it was driving him to insanity. When his tenth idea ran away from him he lost his composure and began tearing unused pages from his journal. He ripped out as many as ten or twelve before he stopped himself; journals that well bound were hard to come by around Massachusetts; he'd brought this one back from his last trip to London. He wanted to make sure he got the best use out of it and that wouldn't happen if he destroyed it.

When he had regained his calm he began to focus his mind again. Pausing on each idea, each thought, even on fantasies and dreams, he tried to pull some kind of information from his mind to write down.

Nothing.

His mind was too scattered, too sleep deprived; he simply couldn't focus! Frustrated into a rage once more he threw his arm into the air, journal over his head in a tight grip. He was poised to throw it into a cluster of pines, but rather than risk losing something he considered to be an extension of his mind Sherlock took a deep, sobering breath and tucked it into the breast pocket of his doublet.

With a defeated thud he sat on the leaf covered path. With nothing to keep his focus and nothing else to occupy his time, he felt himself laying back until his head nestled into a pile of freshly fallen leaves. For the first time in at least 3 days, maybe more, he felt a deep sleep envelope him and without the clatter of livestock and the gabbing of nearby neighbors, he quickly fell asleep in the comfort of his leafy bed. He would have slept until the next Sabbath day, if it hadn't been for a life changing collision with his sleeping form.

OoOoO

"What do you think you're doing?" Jolted awake by a jab to his torso and then startled further by a weight falling on top of him, Sherlock struggled to get to his feet. He heard the high pitched cries of his intruder as they fell to the ground he had moments earlier been resting peacefully on.

"You could have gotten us both seriously hurt!" He quickly checked to make sure he had avoided physical injury during the unexpected encounter. Other than a possible bruise to his abdomen he decided he was unscathed.

He turned his attention to his assailant, who he now saw was a young woman. A young beautiful woman if he was ever willing to admit such a thing. He scanned her for broken limbs or cuts. She seemed unhurt as well, though her dress was a bit torn up.

She stuttered as she stood, lightly brushing herself off while trying to form a coherent apology.

When she fully turned to face him and lifted her eyes, her stuttering ceased. Her eyes widened as he continued to scowl at her. He hoped he was conveying his full irritation well enough; he really was scowling as best he could.

In the wake of her dumb silence, he began to brush the leaves and dirt from his clothes.

At last she found words, though they were boring and exactly the words he had expected from her.

"I'm sorry." At her mousy reply he only sighed and continued to readjust himself. When he was finally finished smoothing out his doublet he looked up and met her gaze. He was suddenly surprised by how flushed she was. Was she so embarrassed by a stumble? After a moment she dropped her gaze and began fidgeting her fingers in front of her. Perhaps he had been too irritated with her, it wasn't completely her fault after all.

He lowered his eyes for only a moment before beginning to observe her completely.

She wasn't from any of the colonies, that was certain, she was still too pale and just a little too much… _London. _She wore the fine dress of someone born into money, but… no, she wasn't rich. She had a small amount of luggage and though her dress was very fine it was obvious she herself had poured a lot of time and labor into it; so a regular woman then. She was in the forest for no discernible reason, so she was hungry for a bit of adventure, not much, just enough to get a taste. She had no urgency to go back to a party of any kind or her family, so she traveled to the New World alone. No wedding band. Single.

As quickly as he had deduced with his eyes he relayed the information with his mouth. He could see her blush with each correct deduction he fired off at her, though he could tell he'd missed one. There's always something! Well, he'd discover it later, he knew he would.

"There's one thing I'm not sure of. Why are you out here in the middle of the forest? You have no reason to be."

He saw her trying to process his rapid deductions and waited for her reply to his question.

"I was just strolling, thought I would explore before I settled into town."

Sherlock nodded and tucked his hands behind his back. Satisfied that she was not of too much interest to him, he decided to take his leave. No need for trivial goodbyes and such.

He turned slightly away from her but before he could even take a step he felt a small hand grab his arm. She quickly removed her hand as if she had been burned. "I could ask the same about you, sir."

Oh, was she going to chatter? He did so hate the chatter, but this felt different. He felt he didn't hate talking to her, though she had only said a few words to him. Perhaps she was of more interest than he first surmised. Perhaps he would write this in his journal, if he still found it of any interest in a few hours.

"I come out here to think," why was he telling her this? "I find it is a good place to relax and be alone with my thoughts." He really was pouring out his soul, wasn't he? How foolish. "Though, you really don't need to know that, do you?" Curiosity nagged him subtly, "Who are you?"

She paused for a moment, pulling herself up and straightening her back; not so mousy, eh?

"Mary Hooper, seamstress from London."

Ah, the dress. That explains it then. But no, there was more to this little seamstress than she would let on. He took a look at her hands which had stopped fidgeting and were now neatly folded in front of her. It took him less than 15 seconds to see what he'd missed; well, part of it anyway. Smirking, he took a step back and put on his best 'I know who you are' act, even if he was still slightly puzzled by the woman in front of him.

"You've sewn up more than cloth, that much is obvious." He saw color drain from her face once again and knew he was right. But what was it she was doing, or had done, that she was trying so very hard to keep secret? She was becoming more intriguing with every minute that passed it seemed.

She pulled her hands apart and tucked them behind her quickly. "Oh, don't worry, I won't ask. It is _your_ business." For now, he thought to himself.

He could tell now that she was in turn curious about him, but, he thought smugly, who wouldn't be at least a little bit intrigued with him?

Sherlock smirked as he turned down the path and took long strides back in the direction of Bakersville. It was less than three seconds before he heard her hurried footsteps behind him, trying hard to keep up. They were silent for a few minutes, mostly, he figured, because she was out of breath trying to keep up the pace.

"Listen," at last she began conversation again, and he was correct, she was _very_ out of breath, "why were you on the ground in the middle of the path?"

"Obviously, because I was conducting an experiment," he lied, casually.

"Oh? And what was that?"

'What was that?' Hm. So concerned was Sherlock with the slight hitch in her breath as he sped up every so often that he had a hard time coming up with a viable lie to feed her.

"I was seeing how long I could lie on the path before someone stepped on me." That sounded ridiculous, but if she was like the other human cattle that surrounded him, she'd probably buy it.

"You were sleeping, weren't you?" Did she sound _smug_?

Sherlock turned on his heel to face her, so close he could see the dirt that smudged the tip of her nose; he had to stop himself from wiping it off. He held her gaze for several seconds, brows drawn together in what he hoped looked like an irritated expression, but he quickly lost it and let a small smirk form in the corner of his mouth. "Yes. Perhaps you are more observant that I thought; don't think that's impressive though, it still wasn't a brilliant deduction on your part." And it wasn't, really. But she also wasn't human cattle. She had a little more talent for actually _putting things together_. He liked that.

Before he could think about anything too long he turned to continue walking. He was slightly unsure if she was still behind him when he heard no footsteps struggling to keep up with his, but his doubt was removed when he heard her steadily begin to walk again. She wasn't going to rush to keep up though; ha, clever girl, he thought. Sherlock decided to slow down just a little bit. Not for her, not at all. His feet were just a little sore.

OoOoO

At last Sherlock took a step onto the gravel road that led into town. The sun that emerged when they had stepped out from the shelter of the forest canopy nearly blinded him. He continued on, mostly ignoring the things around him until he came to his door. Completely by habit he undid the bolt and began stepping inside, shutting the door behind him. For the second time that day, the woman grabbed his arm, though this time it lingered a moment longer.

He stopped, halfway into his home and half in the doorway. "What's your name?" Sherlock paused for a moment staring at her blankly. What had she said her name was? Mary? Mary Hooper,_ that_ was it. No, she didn't look like a Mary to him. That was too Old World. That was too safe. She was Molly. Molly was intriguing; Molly was a bit of a mystery. He was going to solve her.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. I really must be going, see you soon, Molly Hooper."

Before he shut the door he saw her bewildered expression. Oh yes, this would be interesting.

Molly Hooper.

_A mystery_.


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm so happy that this is going again, sorry about how long I've delayed before this! Thank you guys, R&R! I, unfortunately for poor old me, own nothing.**

John Watson was never a man to stay home on the Sabbath day, but for the last two Sundays that is exactly what he'd done. It wasn't as if he had no faith, and he certainly was no devil worshiper, he had just been terribly busy settling into his new home. Though he had to say that missing a few, dull sermons was no skin off of his nose; he'd never enjoyed Puritan services much. So dull.

But after he felt he was comfortably settled and content in his home, John made sure he was dressed and ready in time for the service. He had no trouble finding his hat—thank God—and was able to eat a thick slice of nearly stale bread before he left. For a moment he was hesitant as to how he should go to the church; the house he shared with Sherlock was connected to it. He decided it was probably best to go out the front way and go in with everyone else. He wouldn't want to walk out of a door and end up on the pulpit for all to see!

Walking out the front door he was confronted with a sea of people, all finely dressed in their best breeches and the women in their best bonnets. John was suddenly aware of every scuff and smudge on his clothing; hopefully he was still presentable enough.

He turned the corner of his home and immediately saw the Chapel doors. The way the church and his home were connected made John's home look like it was just a stray appendage that was haphazardly attached to one side of the larger building.

As he neared the doors he heard a soft coo of his name. John quirked his eyebrows and turned to find the sing-song voice that had called out to him. Soon enough he saw Molly emerge from a dense crowd of parishioners, her young daughter in her arms. John's face brightened as he saw her; she wore a finely made dress and a matching bonnet fringed with a delicate fabric. Her hair was firmly up in a bun, but he could see a loose strand that had fallen over her eyes. As he observed mother and daughter, he noticed that Pearl was wearing a dress to rival her mothers. It was a rich, rose colored garment speckled with white designs of her mother's fanciful imagination.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," Molly greeted him brightly, but, it would seem to a stranger, not overly friendly.

"Good morning," he replied, smiling back at her. Before a had a chance to say anything else to her she nodded to him curtly and walked right by into the chapel. Dumbstruck for a moment John stood in the same place, unmoving. He finally pulled himself out of his state and turned to find a seat in the church.

In all honesty, he had wanted to sit with Molly and Pearl, though he could see now that she had been sealed into a pew near the front by other parishioners; there was no way he was getting next to her, not with that big farmer sitting next to her.

He sighed and found a pew just across the aisle from the one Molly occupied. Though it was nearly full, he found there was room for one more on the very end closest to the aisle. He took it gratefully and introduced himself to the elderly woman next to him. After a few short minutes all the parishioners became quiet and any urgent word that had to be said was whispered. John sat silently, taking his time to observe the people surrounding him. He noticed after a while that he could see Molly if he sat with his back against the pew. She was silent, head bowed and eyes closed as if she were praying, but it seemed to John that she wasn't. It seemed more to him that she was just trying to get through this waiting period before the service began in relative peace. Eventually, he turned his gaze away and searched the alter for his friend. He had yet to make an appearance.

John almost dozed off waiting for the young reverend to arrive, but was at last alerted of his presence by the woman next to him squirming around and sitting up straighter. Fully awake, he took one last glance around at the people in the pews. They had all sat up straighter at Sherlock's entrance. Apparently he made quite the impression on them.

"Brothers and Sisters in the Lord," John had known that Sherlock had a powerful voice, but now he could positively feel the walls rumbling with his baritone, "we gather here today to repent for our sinful ways, to confess ourselves to the one true God. We bow our heads in silent repentance."

John bowed his head hesitantly. Sherlock did his service differently than any he had seen in Salem or other towns he passed during his travels. This was new to John.

"And now know that God has forgiven the sins you confessed to Him."

John heard the collective movement of the other parishioners raising their heads once again, and likewise followed suit. Sherlock continued the service, blessing people here, condemning someone there, and preaching the Good News and the tough news. John was stunned by how eloquent and powerful Sherlock was. He knew before that he was no stuttering fool, but this was just electrifying.

About halfway through, John turned to glance at Molly once again. Her head was still low and her eyes open but downcast. To anyone else she still looked as though she was praying, but John saw differently. She was avoiding attention.

"I take my text today from Luke, Chapter four verses nine through fourteen." John distantly heard Sherlock begin his sermon, though he was far too focused on Molly to pay his full attention to the Gospel. He wondered if she always did this on the Sabbath, if she tried her best not to make herself noticeable because of the brand on her chest. He knew it must be hard to be the center of ridicule and general contempt. John returned his gaze to Sherlock, whose arms every so often swung above his head in a dramatic gesture, and whose fists would pound the pulpit to add extra power to his words. John decided he would just ask Molly about her behavior during the service some other day. Eventually they had to talk about more serious matters, why not start with that one?

"And Jesus Christ replied, 'Scripture says I will not put my Lord, God to the test."

John smiled at how enthusiastic and energized Sherlock seemed as he spoke. He had never seen him like that, so full of life. If John had had doubts before they were gone now. Sherlock Holmes was certainly a born preacher.

OoOoO

After the service Sherlock went to the front doors to greet everyone on their way out. John followed.

"Lovely sermon, really beautiful." "Very Powerful message!" "Very nicely done, Reverend Holmes."

John smiled as he saw Sherlock smiling and nodding to each kind word he received, even chuckled a little with some of the more interesting compliments on his sermon. He shook a few hands, patted a few toddlers' heads, gave a few hearty pats on the shoulders of some of the men. John felt like he was in the company of a completely different man than he had seen earlier that morning.

"Well done, Sherlock. You've awed them yet again." John looked up when he heard the dry, bored voice of someone he recognized.

"Thank you, Mycroft. Do so hope you enjoyed it." Though Sherlock's tone was clipped he didn't show his irritation with his brother. He merely bowed slightly and shook his hand. The sea of people that exited the sanctuary seemed endless, but John was content to wait behind his friend until his duties were complete.

At last John saw another familiar face nearing them from the crowd. He thought about moving around Sherlock to shake her hand himself and walk her back to her home, but the stiffness in her walk told him that perhaps she would rather not have company.

"Good Morning, Ms. Hooper," John turned to observe his friend when he heard the solemn tone enter his voice. Just a moment ago he had been joyful and friendly, now he seemed very withdrawn.

"Beautiful sermon, Mr. Holmes." Molly's eyes were no longer cast down and John was taken aback by the glimmer he saw in them.

They shared a blank stare for a few seconds before Sherlock extended his arm and placed his hand on her daughter's head. He gave her a small blessing as he did with all the young children and patted her head when he was finished. In that moment John felt like he was intruding on something that bewildered him very much. He just didn't know what.

OoOoo

Sherlock didn't hate greeting all of his parishioners on their way out, but it certainly wasn't his favorite activity. Eventually every person looked the same, every compliment sounded recycled, and he couldn't distinguish one elderly farmer from the rest. But he didn't_ hate_ it.

He wasn't sure why John had opted to wait with him until he had spoken with everyone, but he didn't mind. It was nice to know he had someone around him for company. He could hear his companion occasionally say a 'Hello' or 'Lovely service, wasn't it?' to the passing parishioners and they would smile at him in reply. Sherlock wondered if John was curious about Sherlock's mask that he put on for his services. He was one of the only people who had seen him in his own private environment where he was free to throw fits and be sullen, but in front of his parish, he put on a very convincing mask, a great show. Most Sabbath days, if he was honest, he got kind of into it and forgot it was an act. He did enjoy 'performing' during his sermon.

But he knew John had to have seen the change in his demeanor towards the people in his church. He smiled more, he knew that. He didn't know if he convincingly changed the rest of his face or not. It was hard to force joy into his eyes, but he tried. He'd let John ask him about it later; he surely would.

A face emerged from the vast, indiscernible crowd that Sherlock clearly recognized. She stopped in front of him and kept her eyes downcast until he spoke.

"Good Morning, Ms. Hooper." He let the fake enthusiasm leave his voice and felt his face return to its semi-impassive state.

"Beautiful sermon, Mr. Holmes." Her eyes were moist with a small amount of unshed tears. Not enough that she probably even noticed they were there, but he could see it.

He stared for perhaps a little too long before extending a blessing on the child. He unconsciously ran small circles over the small girls head was he blessed her, her thin, fine hair feeling so smooth beneath his fingers. He reluctantly removed his hand and tried to smile at her as a form of farewell, but could feel that it was not convincing in the least. If anything all he did was make his lips tremble. She succeeded more in giving him a farewell smile, though it was forced as well.

He stopped himself from turning to watch her leave and returned his attention to the rest of the blank faces and hands waiting to shake his.

OoOoO

"So," John began casually with a small amount of biscuit in his mouth, "you enjoy preaching?"

Sherlock was facing the fireplace in their home, legs crossed and elbow on his knee so he could lean forward and rest on his hand. He smirked and shifted his eyes to his friend. John's face was expectant, eyebrows raised and eyes wide in curiosity.

"I don't dislike it."

"Oh, come on," John laughed in disbelief, "you were having a grand time up there. You love it!"

Sherlock shifted his chair so that he could face John, who was currently sitting at their dining table eating the last of the bread.

"John, I wouldn't say you are a complete idiot," he laughed internally when John's face became defensive, "but you really must be more observant. Though I do appear to be enthusiastic and excited about my sermons and to be friendly and outgoing towards my parishioners, it does not necessarily mean that I _am_."

John didn't reply for a moment, but simply watched Sherlock with a face of utter confusion and disbelief. "What so… so you just fake it? Just pretend to care about what you're saying?"

"Not completely. Sometimes I truly become invested in what I'm saying, though I often seem enthusiastic because I enjoy performance. And performance gets a message across much better than a firm word from some boring old man, wouldn't you agree? It's better to give them a_ show_."

John stared for another minute before huffing and sitting back in his chair. "Well, that's certainly one way to do it, I suppose."

After a long silence both men began to chuckle. Neither knew exactly why, but it felt good to laugh with someone.

"Weren't you going to visit Ms. Hooper today?" Sherlock's laughter subsided as he returned his attention to John and waited patiently for an answer.

John came down slowly off of his laughing high and settled back down into his chair as he shook his head back and forth. "Ah, no. She and I agreed that it wasn't very proper to visit for tea on the Sabbath day. I'll probably go tomorrow. Why?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged. John knew that when Sherlock stopped using actual words that a conversation was just about finished. Sighing, he got up from his chair and wandered into his room. He'd finally removed the layer of dust that had been covering every surface in the small room and had picked up the stray debris that littered the floor. It was a suitable room for his needs, nothing very impressive, but suitable. John pulled an old medical book he'd brought with him from England out of his luggage bag and sat down on his bed. Had to keep up his knowledge if he wanted to continue helping people. He turned to a random page and immersed himself in the handwritten words he found.

**A/N Ah! Yay, updates! Ok so I'm really enjoying this storyif you can't tell, it's a ton of fun. I'm hoping it will get moving a little bit quicker soon, so prepare! More updates are soon to come! Thank you guys so much for your patience, you are rock stars! R&R! :) **


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's another update! Hope you are enjoying this story! I've had a lot of positive reviews and believe me, they are so helpful! They make my day too:) More updates soon to come! I own nothing.**

Sherlock had debated it for a long while now, but he finally found the burst of courage he'd been waiting for. Cautiously walking out of his room and towards John's, he rehearsed his plan in his mind. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was something to keep his mind occupied from rethinking his decision and possibly changing his mind. He crept to John's door and slowly pushed it open. Step one complete. He peered through the small crack the opened door offered and saw that John was peacefully asleep in his bed with an open book resting on his chest. Step two. Check. This plan was going splendidly.

He slowly pulled the door shut again and moved towards the front door. He doubted he had to worry about anyone else being awake at this time of night as long as he didn't hang around in plain sight too long.

As soon as he was out of his home and the door was shut and latched he made a dash down the gravel road. He'd always been very fast; people said he raced like a greyhound. In less than 15 seconds he had reached his target and paused to quickly catch his breath before he nimbly undid the bolt on the door and stepped inside. It was dark, he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. Luckily he knew the layout of this place by memory. He moved cautiously through the parlor area, barely side stepping a chair, and found another closed door. He pushed it open easily and stepped inside the smaller room. He moved carefully, aided slightly by the moonlight that came in through one small window. When he was closer, he reached out a hand and gently shook the home owner's shoulder. Startled awake, the figure rolled away and grabbed for a match before quickly striking it and lighting a candle. In the dim glow he could now see her face. He hadn't meant to scare her, but he didn't know how else to get her attention when she was asleep.

They were both quiet for a long time before she shook herself to complete consciousness.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock moved around her bed to the other side where she had escaped to when he'd woken her.

"I just want to talk." It was true, there were so many things he couldn't talk to anyone else about, and when he kept them bottled up he tended to throw fits.

She cleared her throat and moved away from him for a moment to grab another candle which she lit. The light in the room became a little more natural and he could see her more clearly. She carried both candles back to the side of the bed where she had left him and set them on an end table. Adjusting her nightgown, she sat down on the edge of her bed and gestured for him to do the same. He sat, careful to leave about two feet of space between them. For a long time neither of them spoke as they had intended to, but instead stared out of the window they faced.

When he felt her shift slightly he figured the silence wasn't really helping anything.

"How is she?"

Molly was quiet for a moment but he could tell she had a faint smile on her lips. "She's fine, great actually. John has been checking up on her."

Sherlock didn't reply. The fact that she'd so quickly brought up John made him nervous that his speculations about the two were correct.

"How are you," this was less a question; she knew he was never quite alright, especially now.

"Oh, you know, the same." That answer scared her. Sherlock's 'the same' was destructive and unpredictable. He worried her.

"You?"

"I've been branded a hussy, how do you think I am doing?"

They were silent as the tension in the room became imperceptibly thicker. Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable after about 5 minutes of silence. He began to shift every so often and move his hands from his legs to the bed to his legs again until he felt a hand come down gently on his arm. His fidgeting instantly stopped; he felt safe for the first time in a long time.

"Molly," Sherlock was surprised to hear himself whisper.

Moving her hand lightly against the fabric covering his arm, Molly drew light patterns on him with her fingers. Soon she was making wider paths with her hand until she gently ran along his entire arm. Sherlock felt himself growing tired and feeling indescribably calm in Molly's presence. Eventually he felt her scoot away; he sighed at the loss of her gentle massage, but soon her hands were back, gently pulling him backwards by his shoulders until his head landed on something soft. She continued her light caresses, running her fingers through his hair and occasionally running both hands down his chest and back up to cup his face. He felt sleep begin to cloud his mind and he could tell the same was happening to Molly, for her hands were slower and didn't travel as far as they had moments ago.

Something in the back of Sherlock's mind fought the temptation of sleep. There was something he had come here to discuss, but with Molly's hands in his curls and sleep so close he had a very hard time bringing the issue out of the depths of his thoughts.

Oh well, he thought, it couldn't be too important.


	11. Chapter 11

**Another update! Trying to make them pretty regular:) Thank you for all of the Reviews! Very encouraging and fun to read:) Sadly, I do not own anything! Enjoy!**

A large body shifting and turning over in the middle of the night had woken Molly a while ago, but rather than disturb the man that had ended up at some point curled around her, she remained unmoving though very awake. Every breath Sherlock expelled ghosted across her face and she was extremely aware of every heartbeat and every small movement. She tried hard not to turn her eyes to his sleeping face; it would be too tempting, too easy to get lost in the intimacy of the moment. And that's what worried her most. There shouldn't have been any intimacy. They shouldn't be together in her small home, curled together like they did this every night of their lives. Being together, being that close caused trouble. And Molly Hooper didn't need any more trouble than she had.

Still she hesitated to wake him; she was sure he hadn't really slept in at least a week. He frightened her with his bad habits and poor routines. He never slept or ate when he should and often put them off until someone forced him to. She wondered how often he did anything but cause trouble for himself without someone around to keep an eye on him. Even if he didn't know it, John was a blessing to him. At least he had someone around to make sure he didn't destroy himself.

Molly shifted slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse at his face. She cursed herself the moment she had done it; he was beautiful. She suppressed the urge to brush a curl from his forehead as she continued to scan his sleeping features. She rarely ever saw him except on Sunday mornings, but now she could clearly see the dark bags under his eyes. She was right then, he hadn't been sleeping much.

Molly sighed sadly, jumping slightly as his arm tightened around her waist. Again she considered just staying put and leaving him to rest, but she knew that she enjoyed having him near too much to let this go on. Bringing her arm up to his shoulder, she mimicked Sherlock's actions earlier in the night. She dispensed with just shaking him lightly and began to shake him with more force until he lazily opened his eyes. As soon as he removed his arm from her waist, Molly sat up and moved back until her back rested on the rough, wooden wall that her bed met. She sat there patiently waiting for Sherlock to come completely to life. He struggled to pull himself up to a sitting position, still groggy from sleep.

"Is it morning?" he finally asked, though his speech was slurred.

"Not quite yet," Molly replied quietly, gaze cast at the wall across the room from her, "the sun hasn't started to rise. You'll have plenty of time to get back to your own home unseen.

When he didn't reply, she thought he might have fallen back to sleep, but when she turned her head she was frozen by his stare. There was no sleepy glaze over his eyes as he watched her intently. The look he was giving her was uncomfortable.

"We never talked," he stated coolly.

"No, we did. It was brief and unimportant, but we spoke last night."

Sherlock shook his head and moved up the bed until his back rested on the same wall as Molly's. He ran his hands through his thick curls and over his face trying, as far as Molly could tell, to keep himself fully awake.

"I came to talk about something more important." Molly did not reply. She had a feeling she knew what he wanted to discuss. "He's here."

Molly dropped her head. "I know. He spoke to me in the prison."

Molly heard Sherlock make an angry strangled noise and turned her head to see his face was still as impassive as it had been a minute ago.

"He wanted to make a deal with me," she tried to make eye contact with the man beside her, but his focus was on the opposite wall as hers had been, "he said he wanted to keep our marriage a secret. In fact he said that I should forget we were ever married to begin with."

Sherlock swiveled towards her quickly, his brow furrowed deeply. "Why? Why would he want that? Why not just bring you out and humiliate you more?"

Molly cringed at the thought of her humiliation; as if anyone could make it worse.

"All I understand is that he believes it would be best for both he and I if no one knew he was once my husband."

Sherlock's face remained perplexed with a hint of concern. Molly could tell he was deep in thought, thought she would probably have a hard time keeping up with. Suddenly his expression shifted to one of mild horror. Molly's stomach dropped; she dreaded what Sherlock had discovered.

Thankfully, he kept the revelation to himself, quickly shaking the look from his face and replacing it with his usual expression of impassive boredom.

"If Moriarty wishes that no one knows of your union, then you will comply, correct?"

Molly nodded her head solemnly. "Yes."

"Good."

They were silent for a few minutes, both of their eyes cast at the same, dull wall. They were too afraid to look directly at each other.

After a silence that had spanned a little too long, Sherlock spoke. "You know, I've been curious about your relationship with J—"

"Sherlock, shh, look," Molly's voice was quiet but had a sense of urgency as well.

Sherlock followed her gaze to the small window in her room. Light slowly flooded the wooden floor, illuminating her face. It was morning.

"You need to leave," when Sherlock made no effort to rise from her bed, she became frantic, "now!"

Molly swatted his arm and pushed him from her bed with determination. Walking to a small chest in the corner, she grabbed her dress and bonnet. The last Sherlock saw of her as he made his way out of the room was a wide view of her bare shoulders as she slid out of her night clothes. He had to force himself to keep walking to the front door.

Still hoping to avoid any prying eyes at such an early hour, Sherlock opened the door swiftly and began down the path and a run, then a casual walk when he was far enough away. Though he noticed as he stepped out onto the gravel road that formed their town's main street that he felt a bit incomplete. One more step and he realized that he had forgotten something very important at Molly's bedside; his shoes.

Sherlock froze. What was he to do? The sun was rising quickly, soon enough all of the town would be up and about, shuffling down the streets like the livestock they were. But, he thought in distress, he also couldn't return home without his only pair of shoes. John would ask questions, but, as John was new to his life and also aware that he had many quirks, perhaps he wouldn't push the matter too far. He could always retrieve his shoe's another time, perhaps Molly could drop them off or slip them into John's shoulder bag.

Before Sherlock had any more time to decide his best course of action, he heard something hit the ground a few feet behind him, and then felt something else hit the back of his leg. He turned quickly to find a pair of shoes scattered on the path he had just been walking down. Looking up he saw Molly at her door, smirking and waving before going back inside. Sherlock moved to grab up his shoes and, holding them both in one hand, began back down the path, across the road, and back to his home.

Though while he walked he had to admit that he admired Molly's throws. He laughed to himself as he disappeared through his front door.


End file.
